Martin Beck: The Locked Room Part 9

On the other hand, a couple of months earlier, he'd become involved in a completely incomprehensible occurrence. Not even this, however, had had any consequences, and he felt certain many years would pa.s.s before anything similar would occur again. With good reason he deemed his chances of being arrested as even smaller than the chances of his getting thirteen score-draws in his thirty-two-line football-pools system.

Mauritzon was seldom idle, and his diary for Wednesday was pretty full. First he was to accept a drug consignment at Central Station and take it to a left-luggage locker at ostermalm metro station. Afterwards he planned to hand the key to a certain individual in exchange for an envelope full of cash. Then he would call at the location where the mysterious letters addressed to Malmstrom and Mohren were in the habit of appearing. It annoyed him slightly that, despite his best efforts, he still hadn't managed to work out the sender's ident.i.ty. Then it would be time to do some shopping, buy some briefs, etc., and last on his itinerary came his daily visit to the house on Danvik Cliffs.

The drugs consisted of amphetamines and hash, ingeniously inserted in a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, both in an ordinary shopping bag together with a variety of other objects of a particularly innocuous nature.

He had already picked up the goods and was standing by the pedestrian crossing outside Central Station, an insignificant but respectable-looking little man, holding a shopping bag. On one side of him stood an old lady. On the other, a female crossing attendant in a green uniform together with a crowd of other people. On the pavement, five yards away, two sheepish-looking policemen were standing with their hands clasped behind then-backs. There was the usual - that is to say very heavy - traffic, and the air was saturated with enough petrol fumes to make one gasp.

At length the lights turned green, and everyone began shoving and jostling, trying to beat the others across the road. Somebody b.u.mped into the old lady, who turned around in horror and said: 'I see so badly without my gla.s.ses, but it's green now, isn't it?'

'Yes,' Mauritzon said amiably. 'I'll help you across, madam.' Experience had taught him that a helpful att.i.tude could often yield certain advantages.

'Thank you so much,' the old lady said. 'It's so I seldom anyone gives us old people a thought.'

'I'm in no hurry,' Mauritzon said. Taking her lightly by the arm, he began to steer her across the street When they'd gone three yards from the kerb another pedestrian in a hurry b.u.mped up against the old woman again, so that she faltered. Just as Mauritzon prevented her from falling he heard someone shout: 'Hey, you there!'

He looked up and saw the crossing attendant pointing at him accusingly and yelling: 'Police! Police!'

The old lady looked around, bewildered.

'Grab that thief,' the crossing attendant yelled.

Mauritzon frowned but stood stock still. . 'What?' said the lady. 'What's the matter?'

Then she too squeaked: 'A thief. A thief.'

The two policemen strode over. 'What's all this, now?' asked one of them in an authoritative tone. Since he spoke in a Narke dialect of the most whining variety, he had some difficulty in producing the harsh strident tone supposedly required of a man in his position.

'A purse s.n.a.t.c.her!' shouted the crossing attendant, still pointing. 'He tried to s.n.a.t.c.h that old lady's handbag.'

Mauritzon looked at his antagonist, and a voice within him said: 'Hold your tongue, you b.l.o.o.d.y ape.'

Aloud he said: 'Excuse me, but there must be some misunderstanding.'

The crossing attendant was a blonde of about twenty-five, who had contrived further to spoil her inherently unimpressive appearance with the aid of lipstick and powder.

'I saw it myself,' she said.

'What?' said the old woman. 'Where's the thief?'

'What's all this, now?' said the two policemen in unison.

Mauritzon remained completely calm. 'It's all a misunderstanding,' he said.

'This gentleman was just helping me across the street,' said the old woman.

'Pretending to help you, yes,' said the blonde. 'That's how they do it He s.n.a.t.c.hed the old woman's... I mean the old lady's bag so she almost fell over.'

'You are misinterpreting the situation,' Mauritzon said. 'It was someone else who happened to b.u.mp into her. I just caught hold of her so she shouldn't fall over and hurt herself.'

'Now don't you try that one,' the crossing attendant said stubbornly.

The policemen exchanged a questioning glance. The more authoritative of the two was evidently also the more experienced and enterprising. He reflected a moment, then delivered himself of the appropriate line: 'You'd better come along with us.'

Pause.

'All three of you. Suspect, witness, and plaintiff.'

The old lady seemed utterly bewildered, and the crossing attendant's interest immediately faded.

Mauritzon became even more diffident. 'A complete misunderstanding,' he said. 'But one easily made, of course, with all these muggers roaming the streets. I've nothing against accompanying you.'

'What is it?' asked the old lady. 'Where are we going?' 'To the station,' said the authoritative policeman. 'Station?'

'The police station.'

The procession marched off under the gaping stare of hurrying citizens.

'I may have been mistaken in what I saw,' the blonde said waveringly. She was used to taking down names and licence numbers, but not to being taken down herself.

'That doesn't matter,' said Mauritzon mildly. 'It's quite right to keep your eyes peeled, especially at spots like this.'

The police have an office right next to the railway station. Among many other things it's intended as a place where they can drink coffee. It's also for the temporary custody of detained persons.

The formalities became elaborate. First the names and addresses of the witness and of the old lady who had supposedly been robbed were taken down.

'I reckon I was mistaken,' the witness said nervously. 'And I've my job to attend to.'

'We must clear this matter up,' said the more experienced of the policemen. 'Search his pockets, Kenneth.'

The man from Narke started searching Mauritzon, picking out various commonplace objects. Meanwhile the interrogation continued.

'What's your name, sir?'

'Arne Lennart Holm,' said Mauritzon. 'Known as Lennart.' 'And your address?'

'Vickergatan six.'

'Yes, the name's correct,' said the other officer. 'It's here on his driver's licence, so it's perfectly correct. His name's Arne Lennart Holm. So that fits.'

Next the interrogator turned to the old lady. 'Have you lost anything, madam?'

'No.'

'But I'm beginning to lose patience,' the blonde said sharply. 'What's your name?'

'That's irrelevant,' the policeman said bluntly.

'Oh, take it easy,' Mauritzon said, relaxed.

'Have you lost anything, madam?'

'No. You've just asked me that.'

'What articles of value did you have on you, madam?'

'Six thirty-five in my purse. And then my fifty-kronor card and pensioner's card.'

'Do you still have these things?'

'Of course.'

The officer closed his notebook, looked the a.s.sembled company over, and said: 'The matter seems settled. You two may leave. Holm stays.'

Mauritzon retrieved his belongings. The shopping bag was standing by the door. A cuc.u.mber and six rhubarb stalks protruded from it.

'What's in that shopping bag?' the policeman asked. 'Food.'

'Really? You'd better check on that too, Kenneth.'

The Narke man began plucking out the contents and laying them out on a bench by the door, used by off-duty policemen for putting down their caps and shoulder holsters.

Mauritzon said nothing. He followed the process calmly.

Yes,' said Kenneth. 'The bag contains food, exactly as Mr Holm here said it did. Bread, b.u.t.ter, cheese, rhubarb, and coffee... and, yes, well, what Holm has said.'

'Well,' his colleague said conclusively, 'then the matter's settled. You can put all those things back again, Kenneth.'

He thought for a moment, then turned to Mauritzon and said: 'Well, Mr Holm. This is an unfortunate affair. But as you may understand, we policemen have our job to do. We regret suspecting you of a criminal offence and hope we've not inconvenienced you.'

'By no means,' said Mauritzon. 'Obviously you have your duties.'

'Goodbye then, Mr Holm.'

'Goodbye, good-bye.'

The door opened and yet another policeman came in. He was dressed in blue-grey overalls and was holding an Alsatian on a lead. In his hand he had a bottle of soft drink. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l but it's hot,' he said, slinging his cap down on the bench. 'Sit, Jack.'

Uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the top, he put the bottle to his mouth. He paused, and again said irritably: 'Sit, Jack!'

The dog sat down but almost immediately got up again and began sniffing at the bag against the wall. Mauritzon walked towards the door.

'Well, good-bye then, Mr Holm,' said Kenneth.

'Goodbye, good-bye,' said Mauritzon.

By now the dog's head was completely submerged in the bag.

Mauritzon opened the door with his left hand and reached out his right hand for the bag. The dog growled.

'Just a moment,' said the policeman in overalls.

His colleague stared at him, uncomprehending. Mauritzon pushed away the dog's head and picked up the bag.

'Stop,' said the third cop, putting down his bottle on the bench.

'Pardon?' enquired Mauritzon.

'This is a drug squad dog,' the policeman said, moving his hand to the b.u.t.t of his pistol.

17.

The head of the drug squad was called Henrik Jacobsson. He'd held down the job for almost ten years and was a man under extreme pressure. Everyone thought he ought to have bleeding ulcers, or a nervous disorder, or should be running around chewing up curtains. But his const.i.tution was equal to most things and nowadays nothing so much as caused him to raise an eyebrow.

He contemplated die dissected cheese and the hollowed-out loaf, the bags of hash and the amphetamine capsules, also one of his a.s.sistants who was still standing there splicing up rhubarb.

Before him sat Mauritzon, apparently calm, but his mind in a turmoil. His double security system had been broken through in the most unlikely and idiotic fas.h.i.+on. How could such a thing happen? That it should happen once, he could accept; but something similar had happened to him only a couple of months ago. And that made twice. This week he'd presumably get thirteen score-draws in the football pools.

Already he'd said almost all that could be said. For example, that the unfortunate shopping bag wasn't his; that he'd been given it by a stranger at the Central Station to hand over to another stranger on Maria Square. It was true he'd guessed there was something shady about the transaction, but he hadn't been able to resist the hundred-kronor note the stranger had offered him.

Jacobsson had listened without interrupting or comment, but also without appearing to be the slightest bit convinced. And now he said: 'Well, Holm. You'll be taken into custody, as I said. You will probably be placed under formal arrest tomorrow morning. You're allowed to make a phone call, providing it doesn't hinder or complicate the investigation.'

'Is it so serious?' said Mauritzon humbly.

'Depends on what you mean by serious. We'll have to see what we find when we search your home.'

Mauritzon knew precisely what they would find in the one-room flat on Vickergatan, namely some very meagre sticks of furniture and a few old clothes. So that didn't worry him. That they might ask him which locks his other keys fitted he also took fairly coolly, since he did not intend to answer. Consequently his other dwelling, on Armfeldtsgatan out at Gardet, had every chance of remaining safe from poking cops and repugnant quadrupeds.

'Will there be a fine?' he asked, even more humbly.

'No, there won't, old boy,' Jacobsson said. 'This'll be prison, for sure. So you're in a pretty bad way, Holm. Incidentally, would you like some coffee?'

'Thanks, I'd prefer tea, if it's not too much trouble.' Mauritzon was doing some sharp thinking. His position was worse than Jacobsson yet suspected. The fact was, he'd had his fingerprints taken. And very soon the computer would spew out a punch card on which was printed not the name 'Lennart Holm' but quite different things - things that would give rise to many questions he was going to find it hard to answer. They drank tea and coffee and ate half a cake while the a.s.sistant, with the air of a top-notch surgeon at work, solemnly sliced up the cuc.u.mber with a scalpel. 'Nothing else here,' he said.

Jacobsson nodded slowly and said between bites: 'As far as you're concerned, it'll make no difference.'

A decision was ripening inside Mauritzon. True, he was down; but he was far from out for the count. And before he was counted out he had to get back up onto his feet - before the information from the identification bureau lay on Jacobsson's desk. After that no one would believe a word he said, no matter which line he adopted. He put down his paper cup, straightened his back, and said in a wholly new tone of voice: 'I may as well lay my cards on the table. I'm not going to try to wriggle out of it any more.'

'Thanks,' Jacobsson said evenly. 'My name isn't Holm.' 'No?'

'No, it's true I call myself that But it isn't my real name.'

'What is it then?'